


Excuse Me, Sir, That's My Emotional Support Militia

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [4]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Tags to be added, the Arkham Knight - Freeform, the incident with the blown-up prison, they're not the militia yet, they're the Scooby Gang with the powers of saying 'fuck' and killing people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Or, the incident with the blown-up prison.
Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515788
Comments: 26
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FINE. HERE. TAKE IT.
> 
> I actually was going to sit on this a LOT longer, but in light of current events...anyways, enjoy, practice social distancing and wash your hands! It’s gonna be okay, guys. We just gotta bunker down and get through this...and PLEASE, for the love of Jason Todd, stop hoarding the toilet paper. You’re making it worse for everyone.

Antoine looks at the neverending sea of sand and wonders if, should he hit a dune hard enough, it would take out the radio. And if it would even matter.

The karaoke party in the back was fine when it was  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ . It’s like, the law when it’s  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ . It doesn’t matter what God you do or don’t believe in, your politics,  **nothing** , you sing along (or at least don’t change the station) when it’s  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ .

But that was four songs ago and these clowns are absolutely **butchering** _Home Sweet Home_. Antoine is convinced that the Arkham Knight has his own private radio in his helmet (because what’s the point in having the helmet otherwise), and he’s seriously considering asking to borrow it. Or at least, like, piggyback with a Bluetooth or something.

...he won’t, he won’t. He’s not sure about this guy yet.

**“HOOOOOME SWEEEEEET HOOOOOME!”**

Oh, thank God, it’s over--

“Are we there yet?”

What deity did he piss off, huh? What did he do to deserve this?

He takes a deep breath, counts to five, and gestures at the sand.

“Do you see a building.”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Are we sure it’s not an underground lair?”

The Knight can deal with this bullshit. He’s the one with the directions, after all.

Antoine fiddles with the radio, hits static, and turns it off. Ahh, sweet silence. How he has missed thee.

“It’s not an underground lair,” the boss says suddenly. “And we’re probably an hour out.”

That long? Ugh.

They’re going out to what used to be some military fortress and what is now the residence of some weapons kingpin for a job. Well. Maybe. The boss is gonna talk to the guy and see if they’ll take it. All Antoine knows is that it’s something about ‘rivals’ and ‘easy in, easy out’. Supposedly it’s good money, and no weird shit besides.

He’s heard that before, but he’s also not in charge of this operation. But then again, there’s no possible way it could be worse than the Trafficking Debacle. Those SOBs had chased them all the way from Santa Prisca to Goddamn Argentina, and the only reason they’d survived is because a rival cartel had taken offense and gotten their murder on. So whatever this is, there’s no way, no possible way, that it can be worse than that.

The Knight settles back into the seat, arms folded across his chest, and falls silent. The car is, blessedly, quiet for about five minutes before Jimmy goes, “Anyone got a deck of cards?”

“Not after last time, you cheating bastard--”

“Yeah, you know what you did--”

“That was Riley--”

“Nah-uh, that was half you--”

Jesus, why?

He sighs and turns the radio back on. It’s the lesser of two evils…

“Hey, is that  _ Back in Black _ ?”

Yes. Yes it is. And he knows it’s mean, but...would it be so wrong for everyone to be stricken with acute laryngitis? Would it?

“So, boss,” he says, swerving to avoid hitting a bird, “what exactly are we doing here?”

The Knight doesn’t answer for a couple of minutes, preferring to fiddle with his gloves. 

“Considering he has lots of money, our potential benefactor does  **not** have lots of muscle,” he says at last. “Depending on whether or not he can actually pay us, we might be paying his rivals a little visit.”

“Huh.” None of these idiots can sing. Well, that’s a lie. Frank can sing. But, like, not rock. Frank does better with the blues. Or country. Or basically anything else. “So’s he new at this?”

“We’ll see.”

“He knows there’s only seven of us, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

Huh. Whatever, weirdo. Maybe this is, like, an assassination thing, in which case everyone that’s not the Knight (probaby) and Riley gets to hang out and play darts or something.

There’s a lull in the radio and finally, finally. Silence. He’s just settling in to enjoy it when Trent, who’s an over-curious dumbass at best, decides to go, “So is Two-Face, like, split...all the way down?”

The Knight makes the scary noise that Antoine thinks is a cut-off laugh.

“I’m not actually sure,” he says. “But you’re free to ask him if you ever meet him.”

“Eh. Maybe not.”

Now that he’s brought it up, Antoine’s curious. Wiki said ‘acid to the face’, which implies no, but it  **also** said ‘obsession with two’, which implies that...maybe he’d have...finished it? Like, at home?

Mysteries of the world. Unless there’s, like, a Reddit AMA from somebody. You know, ‘I slept with Two-Face AFTER he became Two-Face, AMA’. But does he really want to know?

No, he decides. Not really.

God, it looks hot outside. And desolate. Supposedly their potential client is either squatting in or has outright bought some old military fortress. Said fortress is in the middle of nowhere, but honestly, Antoine’s kinda glad. They’ve spent the last two weeks in Rio, which was fun in theory, but not in practice. Carnival is a busy time, and Antoine personally isn’t too bothered, but it’s tiring after a while, he’ll acknowledge that. And he’s not sure if the Knight’s got a thing about clowns or what, but he spent, like, five days being really jumpy before finally up and vanishing on them for a day and a half. Little weird, but whatever. Nobody else has brought it up and Antoine’s not about to start.

In the here-and-now, the Knight’s settled in like he might hibernate or something and a discussion has begun in the back about Two-Face’s, well, everything.

“--dumbass that doesn’t get fractions,” Mark’s saying to Riley, leaning half-over Frank to gesture better. “One face. Two halves. That’s  **it** .”*

It’s childish. But he still hunches over the steering wheel and grumbles, “Are we there yet.”

The Knight makes the scary noise again.

“No.”

* * *

The fortress is exactly that; forty-foot walls, exactly one visible entrance (a pair of giant doors), and what looks like some sort of canon.

“What the hell?”

“This is the place.”

Oh, he believes that. Out in the middle of nowhere, it’s not like he can go, ‘let’s just check the address, maybe it’s the nice fortress next door, the one with a lawn’.

He’ll admit that he’s been burned a few times and as such is...maybe a little paranoid, but his Danger Radar is going off. Something’s up, and not just because this guy’s probably doing something really illegal.

But maybe not. The Knight takes ‘healthy paranoia’ to  **un** healthy levels, and he’s not saying to turn around and drive away. Maybe Antoine’s just tired. It’s been a long drive, and a long two weeks before that.

“How do we get in?”

“Stop the car.”

Okay…

The Knight hops out. Is he looking for better cell service or something--really? Really?

Okay. So the boss has toys-Antoine’s 90% certain he has them for the Aesthetic-and one of those toys is some sort of grappling gun. Which he is now using to pull himself up to the top of the wall.

“So do we just wait here, then?”

“I guess.”

The boss’s armor makes him hard to spot in a city, but out here? He’s impossible to miss, which means they get to watch him dismantle a camera before crossing to the doors. Two minutes later, the doors are open and he hops back down (one of these days he’s not gonna stick that landing, Antoine just knows it) and gets back in the car.

“Door’s open.”

Well. Good to know that the Knight doesn’t really believe in knocking under most circumstances, then.

Ugh, in they go...if they were supposed to ring a doorbell or, like, use smoke signals, he’s absolutely throwing the boss under the bus. He won’t even feel bad about it. The guy’s not Z--

He won’t feel bad about it, that’s all.

“So if he can’t pay us, do we get to keep his house?”

The Knight sighs. He sounds so very tired.

“We’ll see.”

  
  
  


*Mark’s dialogue is paraphrased from actual in-game dialogue. We don’t hear the fraction-challenged one’s side of the argument, as far as I know.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I love about this fandom is that pre-helmet-Jason is always the Baby. Regardless of how old he actually is, he only gets to be counted as an adult when the helmet is acquired, and honestly, that’s just hilarious.

The...courtyard...area...whatever inside is empty. It consists of more sand, a jeep, and several barrels. Huh.

“They’re gonna feed us, right?” Jimmy asks from the back. “I’m starving. I’d choke down pineapple pizza at this point.”

“I like pineapple pizza.”

“Mark, I trusted you.”

“Sir?” The Knight hums. “They, uh, they knew we were coming, right?”

“Why?”

That is not the answer he wanted.

“They’re not out here.”

“No.”

He doesn’t like that answer, either.

The car is silent for a few beats before the Knight opens the door. Great. Great! Hopefully they’re expected, then.

Antoine is hit with a wave of dry heat, like he’s opened an oven, when his boots hit the sand. Right about now, he re-labels the Knight as an idiot. Unless that suit’s got air conditioning sewed into the seams or something, he’s probably going to slow-roast. Oh, well.

There’s several doors, but only one doesn’t have heavy chains slung across ‘em. Well, then. Level one, start.

Somehow, that’s the thing that sets his danger-senses tingling. They should go, just get back in the jeep and turn around and...and what? It’s a job. It’s a probably highly illegal job, it’s not like they came to clear the path for the Girl Scouts.

But something’s weird. Chains, no people, no...who the hell sets up shop in the middle of nowhere, huh?

Maybe he’s just paranoid. ‘Sides, things have decided to work themselves out lately. He’s not sure how, exactly, but there’s been a couple of problems that have just...solved themselves.

It’s nothing. It’s paranoia, that’s all it is. He’s tired, it’s been a long drive.

“Oh, God, it’s so hot out here,” Trent groans. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You got your fuckin’ throat slit, man,” Mark points out. “It’s a dry heat. It’s not that bad.”*

“Yeah, but that was, like, over fast. I don’t remember that. I gotta stand here and marinate in my own sweat.”

“That’s gross.”

“Just sayin’. C’mere, smell--”

**“Get away from me--”**

“We’re going in, let’s get moving.”

Yes, please. Air conditioning sounds great. And maybe food...but only if he’s sure it’s not poisoned. You know what it is about this place? It’s that he’s getting...kind of... _ Temple of Doom _ vibes. Everything’s normal and find until you get served eyeball soup.

The boss doesn’t knock, but he doesn’t kick the door down, either. He just gets lucky and it’s open.

Somehow, that’s even more suspicious. They shouldn’t be here.

It’s cold inside, the crisp blast of high-power air conditioning drying the sweat instantly. Talk about temperature whiplash...he likes warm places, but not this part.

Air conditioning aside, the main hall...entrance-area...whatever is pretty nondescript. No wall art, no rugs, just...honestly, it looks normal. Professional. So what’s wrong?

Paranoia. It’s just paranoia, for whatever reason.

No. Not totally. There’s still no people. Place this big...c’mon, if you’re gonna get a fortress for your budding mafia or whatever, there has to be more than you. Surely.

Maybe this isn’t a job. Maybe they’re going to be, like, brainwashed. Or murdered. Or murdered and resurrected somehow and molded into zombie-slaves.

“This way.” For once, Antoine’s not the only one giving the Knight a confused expression. He must notice, because he sighs and taps his helmet. “Heat signatures two rooms over.”

That’s new. Has he been able to do that the whole time?

“Wait, wait, wait. That thing can pick up heat signatures?” Leave it to Jimmy to throw manners out the window. “What else can it do? Does it have video? Bluetooth? It’s not, like, rigged to blow, right--”

“No…”

“No to all of the above or just--”

“Who the hell are you?”

Oh, good. A life-form.

“We’re here to see the Cobra.” The Knight’s tone says he thinks the name is stupid. And, well, yeah, it is, but. But. He’s calling himself the Arkham Knight, which isn’t that much better. He should never be allowed to name a country. “He expressed an interest in acquiring our services.”

The guy’s pretty nonthreatening. Average height, average build, wearing a...suit. Out here, in the middle of nowhere.

Okay, then.

“Wait here.”

They’re all quiet for a grand total of ten seconds before Riley coughs. When they all look at him, he rolls his eyes and signs,  _ The Cobra? _

“I’m sure there’s something to it.”

_ Yeah, but...the Cobra? _

Before more discussion can be had, the suit-guy comes back. He’s brought friends; two big, bald guys. Riley isn’t at all subtle when he signs,  _ They look like forty year-old babies. _

Now that he’s said it, Antoine can’t unsee it. Suit frowns.

“That was uncalled for.”

Oh. That’s unexpected.

The Knight shrugs.

“He called me an assclown the first time we met,” he says, and yeah, that was hilarious. Riley just grins, smug as can be, and nods. “It’s nothing personal.”

“The Cobra wishes you to surrender your weapons,” Suit says, frowning some more. “These gentlemen will hold onto them for you.”

NOPE.

The Knight tenses up, and his voice manages to be that much more foreboding when he grinds out,  **“Out of the question.”**

Suit, to his credit, doesn’t quail.

“You will have them back as soon as the initial meeting is over,” he says, polite yet firm. “It is a security measure. Nothing personal.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You are, of course, free to go.”

Antoine likes that plan. So do the others, judging by the purposeful shifting, like they’re just waiting for the boss to turn around and give the go-ahead to storm off. But he doesn’t; he hands over his sidearm to Baby One, pauses, and says, “You might want a tub.”

Nobody goes off to get one, and he shrugs and passes over a second handgun. Then a third. Then a large knife.

Four knives and one hand grenade later, Baby Two leaves. He comes back with a clear tub, and he does not look particularly happy about it. The Knight’s still coming up with sharp objects and Antoine hands over his rifle, albeit grudgingly. It had better come back in the same condition it is right this second, or he’s going to be annoyed--how many knives is that now? Nine? Eleven? Where is he keeping them?

Whatever. That’s the only thing he’s got on him (well, a pocket knife, on the keyring, but he’s totally forgotten about that).

The Knight’s stopped de-weaponing and is literally in mid-step when his finger comes up and he pats around his thighs until he comes up with a small, round...it looks like a black golf ball. It’s about that size, anyway.

“Mine,” he says. “Don’t jostle it...might go off.”

“Is that all?” Suit says tiredly. Everyone exchanges looks. Honestly, Antoine would bet money that Riley’s hiding something, but that could just be hope.

“Yes.”

For a moment, he thinks the guy might argue, or at least demand a pat-down. But he just sighs, motions for them to follow, and starts walking towards the large doors at the end of the hall.

“He’s just in there. I really would prefer just one--”

“Too bad.”

And with that, the Knight flings the doors open.

The man inside is...Antoine’s not totally sure what he was expecting, but this isn’t it. He’s small, Riley’s size at best, and so pale milk looks tan in comparison. It takes him a second to register that he’s not wearing glasses, it’s that his eyes are white, too.

“Ah.” He leans forward, blank eyes fixed on the wall behind them. “The Arkham Knight.”

“Yes.”

“Apologies for the...demands. Sit down. I don’t like to be loomed at.”

That’s fair.

“Think I’ll stand,” the boss says shortly. “You haven’t hired me yet.”

“No. No, I haven’t.” He hasn’t blinked. Why hasn’t he blinked? “How many of you...seven new people are breathing in this room, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Seven will do.” He gets up-yeah, maybe a little smaller than Riley, actually-and comes around his desk, into the boss’s space. Soft-looking, slender fingers come up and brush against the helmet and Antoine’s expecting the guy to draw back a stump, but the Knight’s just still. “Yes. Dinner. We’ll discuss this at dinner.”

Why not now?

“That won’t--”

“Dinner,” the little man says again. “Terry** will take you somewhere to get cleaned up and return your items.”

*Mark is from Tucson, Arizona. It is a dry heat. We’re lovingly judging those of you weeping in the 80-degree ‘heatwave’. (It’s okay. You can judge us for crying when we dip below 75, it’s only fair.)

**No, this is not anything to do with Terry McGinnis. This is a nod to Terry Thomas, who I’ve voice-casted for ‘Suit’. You might know him as Sir Hiss from Disney’s  _ Robin Hood. _


End file.
